


clive christian

by superlawyer



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (kind of. cologne - not pollen.), Asphyxiation, Biting, Choking, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, No Strings Attached, Prompt Fill, Rough Sex, Roughness, Sex Pollen, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4065994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superlawyer/pseuds/superlawyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's choice of cologne causes trouble for Matt. That trouble happens to set in during a semi-formal party at Avengers Tower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	clive christian

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt / request: “peter somehow gets clive christian on him and matt takes him on the spot.” Apologies it’s taken so long, Tumblr anon – I wrote most of this back in 2013, and have only now went back and finished it, because I genuinely forgot about this. 
> 
> To the actual Clive Christian -- should you ever find this -- I'm so sorry; with this, I mean nothing by you, your name, or your very luxe fragrances, and you should really not proceed any further.

“I’m seeing you tonight, right?” Peter asks into the general direction of his phone’s speaker, his hands preoccupied with tying a somewhat respectable half-Windsor.

“Yeah, yeah,” Matt says, “meet me at my place, since I’m closer. We can catch a taxi from there, and ride over together. It’ll be less hassle that way.”

“Ooooh,” Peter coos, “Mr. Murdock, esq. How niiiiiiiiice. I wasn’t aware we were dating, but if you want to make an entrance, works for me.”

“I’m going to make you ride on the roof, I swear,” Matt replies. “Just be here at 7, okay?”

“Yes, dear,” Peter quips. A brief dial tone. Silence.

* * *

 

“Look at you, all nice and cleaned up,” Peter says.

“Because this is obviously the first time you’ve seen me in a suit,” Matt replies, walking down the brick front steps to the sidewalk, his hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks.

“But, this is different. This is not the usual courtroom attire. This is the stuff of Fashion Week, right here. Do you model? You know, I used to take photos…” Peter jokes.

Matt shakes his bowed head.

“This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?”

Peter grins.

“Only if you play your cards right.”

* * *

They settle into the backseat of the cab. Peter sits where he can keep an eye on the meter, while also keeping watch of the changing scenery out of the window; Matt sits next to him, in the center seat. They tell the driver where they’re headed with a degree of hesitation. The driver simply shrugs, wordlessly, and starts down the street. They both share a little collective sigh of relief.

* * *

“This is new,” Peter says, his line-of-sight shifting over to Matt.

Matt exhales through his nose, long and slow, and folds his hands in his lap.

“Hm?” he hums, after a few beats.

“You never sit next to me,” Peter clarifies, sitting back. “What’s up this time?”

“That’s not true,” Matt says. “I’ve sat next to you before. Many times.”

“Not this close. And that’s not the point,” Peter raises an eyebrow, more for his sake than Matt’s. “What’s gotten into you, red?”

“Nothing’s gotten into me,” Matt replies. He purses his lips before continuing, “God. Can’t even make it a third of the way there in peace.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

“Shut it. You love my company.”

Matt tuts under his breath.

Peter smiles. Instead of engaging further, he loosens his tie and adjusts the collar of his shirt, rolling over the tips to straighten out the starched, pale blue linen. Matt chews his lip, inhaling subtly, but not subtly enough. He inclines his head towards Peter.

“Is that–?” Peter’s eyes widen, then narrow into a squint. “Is that why you’re suddenly acting so much weirder than usual?”

“… What?” Matt stirs out of his apparent trance, rolling his neck loosely, shoulders stiff and squared.

“Let’s see: I’m wearing a pretty standard-issue suit. No recent changes in dietary habits. I showered. I’m not humming, or chewing gum. What’s left? Is it the… cologne?” Peter asks. “Okay, so, I typically never wear any, but, I figured, hey, it’s a fancy occasion, so, why not try out the little bottle I’d been given for Christmas a year or two ago? It’s just been sitting around, after all.”

Matt clenches his jaw, replying, quietly, “It’s not bad.”

“Not bad?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“So, it’s not bothering you, or anything, because I can–”

“Don’t worry.”

After several still minutes in traffic, Peter turns his head just enough to really _look_ at Matt, his periphery not reliable enough for his urgent surveying.

Matt’s biting the inside of his lower lip. His hands, balled into fists, and arms cover his lap. His legs are crossed at the knee, something Peter’s never seen him do prior to this moment. His head is slightly tilted back against the headrest. The silhouette of his chest rises and falls more dramatically than expected, swelling up with every deep inhale sucked through his otherwise clenched teeth. He can’t quite tell in the dimness of the unlit backseat at night, but Peter can bet that, underneath his crimson shades, his eyes are shut.

Peter’s eyes widen, again. He shifts away from Matt, turning his head to look out of the window. The hectic, tourist-addled bustle of Midtown Manhattan crawls into view, as the buildings grow taller and taller, shifting in material and style from old brick and stone, and more classically European-influenced structures, to sleek, modern, monochromatic skyscrapers. He mentally counts the number of these buildings he’s been on, in some fashion; he almost forgets what they look like from this low.

“Could you stop here?” Peter asks the driver. “Since, there’s no way you’ll be able to drop us off in front of the Tower, not tonight.”

“Oh,” the driver nods, “yeah, sure.” He pulls over at a curb.

Matt snaps up and hands Peter his wallet, “Here. Don’t argue with me.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Peter cracks a smile. “And, man, you must trust me.”

Matt sighs. Peter smiles and pays the fare. He gives the wallet back over.

Peter opens the door on his side out to the street, rushes out, and closes it. He makes his way over to the door next to the curb.

He opens it with a flourish, bowing and outstretching his arm.

“After you, m'lady.”

Peter can’t discern for certain, but, as always, he’s pretty sure Matt’s glaring at him from behind those tinted glasses.

* * *

It’s not long after they arrive that Peter notices Matt’s behavior, again. Matt, for one, has not characteristically wandered off yet; in fact, he’s lingered near Peter ever since they entered the party, after a quick-but-stilted elevator trip up from the Tower’s lobby.

“Uh, great talking to you guys,” Peter tells the informal ring of “civilian sector” scientists and science communicators gathered. “I’ll– I’ll be back.”

He turns away from them, waving with a salute, then walks toward the redhead a few feet away.

“Matt–”

“–Could we go somewhere and talk?” Matt asks, setting down his rocks glass, making a point to feel for the cocktail table’s lacquered surface before doing so.

Peter tilts his head.

“But we are somewhere, talking–?”

“–Peter, please, not now,” Matt replies, voice low, jaw clenched.

“Um. Okay. Sure. Yeah.” Peter nods, setting his beer down next to the glass. “Follow me, I guess.”

Matt puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, walking behind him through the crowded floor to the elevator bank. They keep this act up until they’re out of the fray of mixed company, Matt’s white cane serving as more of a fashion statement than anything else. Matt drops his arm, but he stays close.

“So–?” Peter starts.

“Talk when we get out of here,” Matt says, clipped.

Peter crosses his arms, replying, “Is this like a *business* thing, or…?”

“No.”

Peter hits the up button, depressing it with the full pad of his index finger as the biometric security system scans his fingerprint. A secondary retinal scanner, hidden behind an unassuming stainless steel panel, runs over his eyes. A small beep, and the elevator opens. They amble inside. Peter presses a floor button.

Matt draws out another sigh. He keeps to himself in a back corner of the spacious elevator, but his posture is wound.

“What floor?”

“26th. First level of consumer sciences R&D. One of the only floors I currently carry credentials to access unaccompanied, and by ‘credentials,’ I mean, ‘the eyeballs and fingerprints’ for.”

“Shit. Okay. No stairs, then.”

“What’s so pressing? Like, what’s up with you tonight? Are you Matt? Because, if you’re not, I swear, buddy, this is not the place or time for that, let me tel–”

“–I’m me, Peter,” Matt folds his arms. “Christ.”

Peter chuckles.

“That’s the Matt I know.”

The elevator dings.

* * *

“Speedy elevator, huh?” Peter remarks. “Aaaaaand it’s empty. Happy now? Can you actually answer m–?”

Matt pushes Peter back against the slate gray marble wall, his arms at either side of him, legs pushing his apart.

Peter swallows thickly, blinking.

“What?”

Matt pulls off his glasses, slotting them into his breast pocket.

“I want to,” Matt’s eyes flutter shut, and he bites his lip. “I need to have you.”

“Wait, what? Are you? Is this… ?”

Matt leans in, sighing against Peter’s ear, “Please.”

Peter shivers.

“Okay,” he replies, dazed, buzzed.

Matt starts at Peter’s tie, loosening it with a few quick motions. He unbuttons just enough of his shirt to not let it get in the way. He tilts his head down into Peter’s neck, drawing in a long inhale.

His hands move down his chest, and to his hips, untucking his shirt. He pushes Peter’s pants down his hips in one hasty motion, and Peter gasps, shivering again, and yet, starting to fever. Matt’s fingers weave and wrap around his length, and he ghosts his lips, wet and warm, against the line of Peter’s neck. Peter’s breath hitches, and he hisses through his teeth as Matt sucks at his throat, mouth searing hot, his fist moving faster. Peter bucks into it, and Matt bites at his collar bone enough to leave a mark.

Peter, shaky hands and all, unclasps Matt’s belt, then unzips his fly. He tries not to take his time, because Matt’s whispering, “Can’t wait to fuck you, need you, need you so much,” in his ear, and sucking at his neck again, marking up tender skin, but he wants to stop and admire his work, because this has to be a fluke thing, and when else does he get to see Matt like this?

“W-wait, do you have a…?” His voice trails off into a breathless sigh, his eyes scanning across the needy, almost upsettingly seductive sight in front of him, undone in more ways than one.

“Yeah,” Matt fishes a condom out of his blazer pocket.

Peter rolls it on him, steadying his hands enough to do so, breath hitching at how hard he already is. Matt tenses at his touch. He snakes his fingers up Peter’s chest and to his lips.

“Suck,” Matt says, his voice a register lower than average, more threatening and yet warmer, like a burning flame, not unlike his “patrol voice,” but even smokier.

Peter’s lips fall open. He sucks around them, flattening his tongue. Matt tilts his head, listening and biting his lip, as always, and draws them out.

Peter leans off the wall, and spreads his legs farther apart, angling his hips toward Matt. Matt slides one arm under and around his waist.

He pushes two fingers against, and then in, and Peter groans, grabbing at Matt’s chest, wrinkling the fabric of his shirt in his grasp.

Matt’s lips press against his, and Peter lets him work him apart and open there, too, as Matt slips his tongue past his lips. Peter whines into his mouth when Matt really starts to move his fingers, now at three, and now at the knuckle, but the stretch burns a little less with Matt sucking at his tongue.

Peter pulls away, chest heaving and face flushed, head tossed back to the cool marble. Matt kisses at his jaw. He pulls his fingers out. Peter wants to mutter something about “sugar” and “medicine,” but the words escape him, because Matt shoves him down on the tile. Peter catches himself, throwing his hands out on the floor, slacks bunched around his ankles preventing his bare knees from spreading as much as he’d prefer. Matt gets on his knees behind him and seizes him by the hips, then pulls him on his length, searing heat and gradual slickness, not nearly slow enough to be anything resembling “gentle.”

The hiss that escapes from Peter’s lips in response echoes throughout the vacant floor. His head dips down.

Matt leans down and over, scarred torso pressed against his back. He inhales, digging his fingertips into the fine contours of Peter’s hipbones. He mouths a brief kiss to the back of his neck, lips grazing spinal ridges. He draws out, then drives in, to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he grits out, clutching Peter’s hips tight enough to bruise. He drags his length back out, then pushes back in, then back out, and back in, deep, erratic motions soon building into a faster, harder, harsher rhythm. Peter groans, so stretched around him, pumped so full, the ache of pressure and dull pooling heat in his chest and rolling down his body providing contrasts between pain and pleasure. With each thrust, he’s jilted forward on his arms, being rocked back and forth, being shaken.

Matt leans back up and wraps Peter’s tie in one hand, the other still tightly around his hip. He uses the tie as leverage, pulling Peter back toward him, making him meet his thrusts. Peter moans, strained, throaty, the silky texture of the tie doing little to lessen the hold it has around his neck. Matt loops the tie around his hand once more, constricting Peter’s throat further.

Matt fucks into him, punishing, rougher than before, skin clashing against skin. In his entrancement, he grunts, low, husky, through barely parted lips. Peter falls on his elbows, and Matt loosens his grip on the tie. Peter gasps.

“Matt, please,” Peter rasps, precome leaking on the smooth tile.

Matt tugs at the tie, again, and slams into him, incessantly striking. Peter’s clothed elbows slide on the tile, bringing his torso down, but the taut tie keeps his head up. The sensation overwhelms Peter – dizziness and weightlessness; numbed, yet overstimulated; being out-of-control, but lavishing in it, letting himself be thrown around and choked, basking in calculated risk. He comes, shaking, bright aura flashing around his vision. He feels the force of each convulsion that spurts come on the smooth tile shoot through him, and Matt behind him, working him through.

Matt drops the tie, and resumes his two-handed grasp on his hips. He bends back over Peter, nosing at his neck. He bites down on the rigid sinew of his trapezius and unravels, pace falling out of rhythm until he stills. He pries himself up and away from Peter’s back and neck.

He sighs, ragged, and pulls out carefully, as he’s filled the condom to absolute capacity. Peter rolls over, on his back, arms outstretched above his head.

“Your, that cologne,” Matt says, tying off, his nose, cheeks, and neck florid. “Clive Christian. It… kind of drives me wild.”

Peter chortles. The sound is croaking.

“That’s an understatement, if I ever heard one,” he replies. He massages his neck.

“It must be to you what catnip is to cats, or something.”

Matt sits back on his legs. His lips quirk.

“Catnip makes cats unbearably – almost comically – horny?”

“Sometimes, I think?” Peter says. “Don’t think it makes them screw the living daylights out of their friends, though.”

Matt smirks.

“And I didn’t know you liked to be choked when you get fucked. We’ve learned so much about each other tonight, haven’t we?”

Peter sits up, mock-scowling, and rebuts, “You watch that filthy mouth of yours, young man. I mean, my goodness, Good Catholic Boys don’t say such things.”

“I’m pretty positive this Good Catholic Boy just made you come without touching you,” Matt replies, leaning over, positioning his lips a few mere inches from Peter’s, eyes half-lidded. “Or am I not supposed to say such a thing, either?”

Before Peter can prattle off a reply, Matt kisses him, sweet, loose, tongue rolling over and against tongue. Matt pulls away.

“Mm, fuck you,” Peter murmurs, glossed up lips pouted apart.

“If you give me a little time, we can, again,” Matt teases. “Speaking of time, we should probably try to make it back downstairs.”

“Oh, shit – the party. We’ve been gone for so long,” Peter says, checking his watch.

“And that either means: we had to run off to fight some pressing danger, or, we went at it in, say, a bathroom, or, perhaps, a mysterious, secluded floor,” Matt says, putting his glasses back on. “Which story should we tell?”

“Uh, the first one for $400, Alex.”

Matt tucks himself in. He nods.

“All right. We still have to find a place to get cleaned up, though. And a place for me to dispose of this,” he pauses. “And get this floor clean, too.”

Peter remarks, “Solution to at least one of those issues: this is Stark’s place, ultimately. A used rubber in a random bathroom wastebasket wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows.”

“Point taken.”

Matt stands up. He offers a hand to Peter. The brunet takes it, and leads Matt to the floor’s restrooms, Matt still following as closely as before.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, mattpeterdom. Hope you enjoyed. I'll try not to be as much of a stranger.


End file.
